War Mage
by ErrethTheStones
Summary: Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived, savior of the wizarding world, wakes up at Hogwarts under the care of two wizarding legends. Harry Potter is a War Mage, a figure of legend and immeasurable power. Can he learn to be the hero his world requires? Or will he watch it burn with him at the helm?


**Author's Note:** **I'm not much for these, and this is my first attempt at a fan fiction so I beg forgiveness for any mistakes. If you like or don't, read at your pleasure and I do hope you enjoy.** **Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter or any property of J.K. Rowling.**

Prologue

Harry's breathing was heavy as he ran as fast as his 8 year old feet could carry him across the neighborhood playground. Dudley and his friends had tried to corner him for a game of "Harry hunting" and knowing what he did about the end results of such a game, Harry bolted as fast as possible. He skidded over a bright yellow slide he remembered being thrown down, leapt over the wooden barrier that Dudley had at one point broken his arm over and cleared the teeter-totter that he vaguely recalled his Uncle Vernon bashing his skull into when nobody was around. Pleasant memories, Harry had of this particular park. He moved as fast as he could searching desperately for somewhere to hide, but with a cry, his hand-me-down sneaker snagged onto a loose stone and he tripped into the dirt.

"He's over there, I see the bugger!" Came the cry of Paul, one of Dudley's gang. Harry tried to scramble to his feet but by the time he'd gotten up, a hard hand latched around his arm and threw him back to the ground. Dudley and his friends's drew themselves into a circle around Harry as he whimpered and curled into himself. Harry refused to beg, knowing it would only make the game worse.

"You know," Dudley started with a cruel gleam, "My pa says that the freak doesn't hurt like the rest of us normal people. That if he hurts himself then he gets better real quick and even hits himself for fun. It's true ya know. He steals my stuff just to get cuffed. Likes it. Makes him happy." Dudley wrenched him up and pushed him towards another of his buddies, Jace, with a vindictive look in his eyes. "So's I was figurin, we could have fun with him his way. Make him smile real hard." And before Harry's wide eyes, Jace pulled out a pocket knife.

Dudley laughed as Harry started to struggle and his friends held Harry down. "Look, he's beggin for it he is!" Harry could only watch in horror as Jace cut a slow groove into the side of his arm drawing a well of blood. The next few minutes passed in a blur for Harry as he slowly slipped into shock. He only vaguely felt the little knife drag into his fingertips, drive into his kneecap, scrape the skin off of his elbows. He knew he was bleeding profusely and tears were leaking from his eyes. Yet despite all this, his forehead hurt the worst, right where his scar was. It always did whenever anything like this happened. He was drawn back to reality from this thought however, when he felt the knife pull back.

"You know," Jace started, "I always see those cool guys in action movies with the scar over their eye. Always wondered what made that happen in real life. Maybe we should try?" He finished already moving towards Harry's left eye with the blade. The knife dragged through skin, slicing into his face making its way towards his eye. Then, agony. The pain before was horrid, Harry thought. This was pure torture.He could feel the knife cut across the surface of his eye and then down below into his left cheek. The knife was lifted and Dudley's crew gathered round to inspect the work.

"Doesn't look even Jace," Dudley said, "maybe you should do the other one." Jace grinned and moved to sit over the other eye and the knife slowly descended.

Harry felt tears start to run down his face. He did nothing to deserve this. He did nothing to deserve the cruelty of these monsters around him, even if he was a freak. But even if he was different, why did the torture him like this? Why did his Aunt Petunia work him into the ground? Why did his Uncle Vernon beat him mercilessly, leaving scars and welts and bruises? Why did they starve him in a cupboard? Why was he allowing this to happen?

Why.

Why.

Why.

The word built up in his skull as his one working eye watched the blade descend and suddenly Harry knew. He knew he could make this stop. The build up in his head reached a crescendo and an explosion of light erupted from him throwing the other boys away from him. They hit the ground, several breaking limbs and crying out in fear. Paul landed against the wooden casing a few feet away and his head made a sickening crack as he didn't get back up from the impact. Dudley and Jace, the ringleaders, felt only fear as they were forced flat against the ground by the sheer magnitude of power pouring out of Harry.

Harry stood up slowly, his magic awakened and knitting shut most of his wounds. Blood was still caked to his face and body, and his eyes glowed an unearthly green, making him look like an angel of death, come to Earth for vengeance. Harry felt something in his scar pulse, and die then. Something that wasn't him and he watched as Dudley's remaining hatred turned to pure fear as he laid on the ground watching Harry. Harry's eyes turned to him and Harry knew one more thing. He wanted Dudley to hurt. Like he'd hurt him. With that thought, Harry raised a hand and pointed towards Dudley, then slowly clenched his hand. Dudley at first felt pressure. Then he saw blood start to come from his eyes and ears. Then Dudley looked at Harry, really looked at him, and said, "I'm sorry." Those were Dudley's last words, as Harry clenched his fist fully and Dudley's head exploded. Bits of blood and gore splattered the area, some landing on Harry and some on Jace. Harry turned to Jace dismissively, and waved his hand nonchalantly, after which, Jace simply ceased to be. Then Harry disappeared, gone from the scene of what would later become known to muggles as one of the most haunting ghost stories for years to come. The Angel of Death had came to England and slain a child, then left to never be seen again.

Albus Dumbledore, Headmaster of Hogwarts, He Who Defeated the Dark Lord Grindlewald, Grand Mugwhump and most importantly, lover of wooly socks, was looking out from his office with great concern. He'd felt something happen. Magic of a nature that hadn't been felt in a century, and shouldn't have ever been felt again. Dumbledore rarely was afraid of anything, but he was terrified at what he believed to have happened. A War Mage had awakened. Those terrifying creatures of myth, Albus had only heard tales. Tales of monsters that wielded powerful dark magic. Capable of destroying castles, ignoring wards, brushing off spells, they were juggernaughts and could be forged by giving up love for others, or so he had been told.And the signature was rapidly heading towards Hogwarts. Albus grimly grasped his wand and looked towards to space he could feel the approaching power coming from. Suddenly, much like a shooting star, a ball of light landed heavily in the quidditch pitch and created a large crater. Dumbledore quickly ran down towards the pitch as fast as possible, his old legs carrying him at a surprising speed. As he approached the pitch he prepared for the fight of his life. Needless to say, he was surprised to find not a man with the power to level a city and only the desire to aid himself, but an unconscious boy covered in blood and rapidly fading. Albus carefully holstered his wand and briefly considered what he was seeing. For a moment, he considered allowing the boy to pass from obvious magical exhaustion, but after a brief internal fight, his moral compass won out. Albus gently leviosa'd the boy up to him and then made his way to the infirmary. He laid him on a cot, cursing that Madam Pomfrey was aiding at St. Mungo's at that moment then flooed for the only person he could think of who may be able to help. As the flames turned green and Albus stuck his head in, he found who he was looking for. Albus looked upon his old friend and with the most serious tone the man had ever heard, Albus said, "Nicholas, I require your aid." With that, Nicholas Flamel, maker of the philosopher's stone, immortal alchemist and formerly, the last man alive to see a war mage and tell the tale, stepped through the flames.


End file.
